


makes me think about you (so i wear it when i sleep)

by rainbowsandgucci



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breakup, Crying, Frottage, Happy Ending, M/M, Makeup, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15958022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowsandgucci/pseuds/rainbowsandgucci
Summary: He’s never been a morning person, even when he’d lived with Harry, who got up before seven every morning regardless of his work schedule. Of course, the days he had to be up earlythen, he’d be woken up by the smell of food, maybe a blowjob, maybe just tender kisses to the base of his spine.Now? It’s the ghost of Harry’s smell combined with the week old takeout containers piled in Louis’ bedroom. It’s Louis wrapped up in Harry’s old Fleetwood Mac sweatshirt even though hehatessleeping with clothes on, and the promise of another long and pointless day filled with too muchlifeand not enough Harry.





	makes me think about you (so i wear it when i sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> me? procrastinating writing my long fic? never. don't know where you got ur information.
> 
> enjoy :)

The first thing Louis smells when he wakes up, is Harry.

The first thing he sees? The empty bed beside him, the blank wall across the room, and a bedroom empty of anything Harry. Well, okay, that’s a lie, because the sweatshirt currently bunched up around Louis’ waist with the hood practically strangling him? That’s Harry’s. 

It’s where Harry’s scent is coming from, and has come from for the last three months, two weeks, and six days. It’s also the only place Louis can smell Harry anymore, though at this point he’s halfway convinced the armani mixed with cookies mixed with coffee, and something else sweet and undefinable is entirely in his head.

Because it’s been three months, two weeks, and six days since he’s even spoken to Harry, much less gotten near enough to smell him.

Finally, Louis throws the covers back, and rolls dejectedly out of bed. He smells of a night’s worth of sweat, a little bit of the wine coolers he’d drank the night before, (were there six of them? Seven? Who knows anymore) and with a sigh, runs his fingers through his hair before leaning forward and rubbing his face with his hands.

He’s never been a morning person, even when he’d lived with Harry, who got up before seven every morning regardless of his work schedule. Of course, the days he had to be up early _then_ , he’d be woken up by the smell of food, maybe a blowjob, maybe just tender kisses to the base of his spine.

Now? It’s the ghost of Harry’s smell combined with the week old takeout containers piled in Louis’ bedroom. It’s Louis wrapped up in Harry’s old Fleetwood Mac sweatshirt even though he _hates_ sleeping with clothes on, and the promise of another long and pointless day filled with too much _life_ and not enough Harry.

With a groan, Louis stands and heads for the shower. God, could he _get_ any more pathetic?

Once he’s under the spray, for the first time in days, he’s suddenly reminded why he puts off showering for so long.

Showers give him too much time to think, too much time to ponder over what the fuck went wrong, and without his permission, his mind wanders to the last few weeks he and Harry had been together.

Little flashes of Harry coming into the bedroom rubbing at his head, because Louis had left the cupboard open in the doorway of the kitchen again, and Harry, being so much taller than Louis, had hit his head as he rounded the corner.

Louis storming into the bathroom while Harry was brushing his teeth to gripe at him for throwing his coat on the bed _again_ , when they literally had a coat rack for that very reason.

The little things that used to be just quirks, the things that they’d laughed about with their friends and playfully given each other shit for their entire two years of living together, were suddenly things that could start fights. Would have them bickering for an hour before one of them finally caved, and they went to bed on opposite sides of the bed without making love or discussing their days.

Just, one day they were _HarryandLouis_ , happy and indestructible, and the next they were fighting constantly like an old married couple from a bad sixties sitcom.

As Louis reaches for the shampoo, he almost decides to just skip it all together, because he’s hit _hard_ by the memory of himself beginning to bitch at Harry one day for leaving the shampoo and conditioner bottles on the wrong ledge in the shower. Harry had started in then too, about how Louis had left dishes in the sink _again_ , and that had been their first full out, knock down drag out fight. 

It had also been their last.

Louis vaguely remembers throwing a pillow at Harry’s head, and Harry had slammed quite a few doors, all while they’d _yelled_ for the first time in their relationship, their nearly six years of being together. Hurtful things had been said by both of them, and in the end, Harry had stormed out of the apartment without his phone, and Louis had packed a bag and gone to stay at Niall’s.

He’d fully expected Harry to text, or call, or even drop by to talk things out. 

Then, a day had passed, then two, then three, and before he knew it, it’d been an entire week since they’d spoken, and no amount of cajoling from Niall or Liam or Zayn or Bebe or Steve was going to get Louis to be the first one to break. So, while Harry was at work one day, he went back, grabbed his shit—and one, just one, of Harry’s sweatshirt—and left.

He stayed with Niall for another few weeks after that, hoping but not letting himself hope.

In the end, a month had gone by with absolutely _nothing_ from Harry, so he’d slowly begun looking for small apartments, as far as possible from the one Harry was still inhabiting. He’d purposely tried to set an impossible price goal, tried to be completely unreasonable about the view he wanted from the bedroom, tried to create as many setbacks as possible.

In the end though, the perfect apartment—it fit his budget, was within walking distance of his job, was far enough away from _their_ apartment—practically fell into his lap, and with all the encouragement he was getting from everyone to _move on_ , he couldn’t pass it up.

So, he’s got a month by month lease signed, and maybe the neighborhood isn’t _great_ , but it’s not Niall’s, so he doesn’t have to feel bad about that at least. 

He did his best with it, anyway. Got his things—still in the same boxes they’d been in a month ago—moved out of Niall’s, bought some new furniture, hung up a picture of his family, and tried to make it feel like home.

Except, he’s been here one month, three weeks, and two days, and he’s never hated an apartment more in his _life_.

It’s too big, for one thing. There are two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, a linen closet, and a living room.

He doesn’t sleep in the bedroom often, not unless he gets so drunk before bed that he can’t remember he has no one to fall asleep next to. It’s too empty anyway, just has a bed, an end table, and Louis’ boxes of possessions he still hasn’t bothered to unpack yet. There’s no pink guitar on a stand in the corner, no photography equipment to pile on top of the dresser, and no weird floral shirts hanging from the closet. He hates it.

He doesn’t use the kitchen. He doesn’t like to cook, never has, never will. Besides, the only things he knows how to cook are things he doesn’t want to eat every night for the rest of his life.

The living room is nice, he supposes. The couch is comfortable enough—it’s where he sleeps most nights—, the TV is bigger than any he’s ever owned, and there aren’t five thousand scented candles everywhere taking up all the space he could be using to set other knick-knacks, pictures, or literally anything else on.

He’s been here one month, three weeks, two days, and he hasn’t set out a single god damn knick-knack, picture, or literally anything else.

And he kind of misses the candles.

It’s kind of pathetic probably, just how much he _can’t move on_.

Not a day goes by that Louis doesn’t think about Harry, doesn’t miss him like he needs to breathe. Not a single, fucking day goes by that he doesn’t check his phone, just hoping, _praying_ that one of these times, Harry’s name will be on the screen.

His contact name still has a little green heart emoji by it, because Louis just…..can’t change it. Can’t bring himself to delete him from his phone like all the websites and bloggers say he should.

Because even after three months, two weeks, and six days, the fact that Harry’s not going to walk through the door any moment, telling Louis he loves him and misses him and wants him back, just doesn’t feel real.

At this point, Louis is beginning to think it never will.

-

Generally, having days off from work are considered a good thing.

Louis used to think so anyway. Back when ‘a day off’ meant waking up late, to a nice breakfast being made, if Harry also didn’t have to work, and afterwards they’d have had lazy sex, or shower, or they’d have laid on the couch and kissed for hours. They might have watched a movie, or gone out to eat, or walked hand in hand to one of the nearby parks. The possibilities were endless.

If Harry did have to work, he’d have woken up to breakfast already made, and warming in the oven, with a cute little note attached to the already filled tea kettle. Then he’d have gone on a walk if it was nice, or cozied up with a cuppa while watching something on Netflix, or reading a book, or maybe writing a song or two. When Harry got home, he’d start in on dinner, while Louis sat on the counter pestering him, or listening to him talk about his day.

Either way, the day would’ve ended with Harry being there.

Somewhere along the line, though, during those last few weeks, maybe even months, days off stopped becoming the little piece of heaven they’d always been.

Louis would wake up, on the days Harry did have to work, and there’d be breakfast waiting, but it wasn’t the same. The tea kettle would be at the same level of full as it had been the night before when Louis had used it last, there were no notes to be found, and the house would feel cold. So, so cold.

The days Harry didn’t work, Louis would wake up alone, and even though the smell of food would fill the air around him, it just. Wasn’t right. He’d stall, before heading into the kitchen. He’d take his sweet time getting out of bed, then he’d go take a shower ( _alone_ ), take longer than necessary to get dressed, and by the time he finally found his way to the kitchen, his food would be on a plate, cold, and Harry would be in the living room already, on his laptop and ignoring the world around him.

Louis was cold a lot, those last few weeks.

Now, days off aren’t much better. He wakes up when he wakes up, there’s no breakfast either way, and while there isn’t the biting presence of the person dearest to him completely ignoring his presence, it seemed lonelier than that had _ever_ felt.

Those last few weeks, with Harry, may have been cold, but at least he knew at the end of the day he could crawl into bed, and Harry would hold him. Because even while things were changing, even while he was cold, Harry would still hold him, and he could pretend, even if just for a little while, that things were okay, and they were going to be alright.

Now? He’s cold, colder than ever, and he’s alone, too.

With a sigh, he heads into the kitchen with the intention of turning on his tea kettle. Then, with another sigh, realizes he still doesn’t own one.

He’d left his with Harry, see, because he didn’t think, never even dreamt he wouldn’t be going back to it. To Harry.

Louis swallows, then turns on his heel and heads over to the door to slip his shoes on. There’s a nice cafe just down the street, that makes good tea. Maybe not as good as his own, or even as good as Harry’s after Louis had taught him how he likes it, but still good enough that he’ll leave the house for it.

Before he leaves, he takes off Harry’s sweatshirt, and grabs a different one.

He can’t risk wearing it out in public and making it smell like other people, it’s all he has left, at this point. All he has left of his boy, and he just. He can’t.

Not yet.

-

Louis is fine.

He’s okay. He’s doing alright.

The last couple weeks have been better.

He’s been getting to work on time every morning, and most days manages to actually grab a bite to eat somewhere beforehand. He washed his laundry the Sunday before, and then folded and put them away in the dresser he’d previously been not using.

He cleaned the take away boxes out of his bedroom, and on his way to the garbage bin to throw them out, had met a neighbor who was nice, and actually had a pleasant conversation.

He hung out with Zayn, Liam, and Niall on Tuesday, and _didn’t_ get blackout drunk and start going on about how much he misses Harry. In fact, he didn’t even bring up his ex.

His _ex_.

That’s what he’s been making himself call him, out loud anyway.

The first time he said it, in front of his mum, ‘ _the ex_ ’, she’d looked near tears, but had squeezed his shoulder, and thankfully hadn’t brought it up.

Louis had realized for the first time that day, after being asked by poor little Ernie ‘ _where’s Uncle Harry?_ ’, that he wasn’t the only one affected by all of this.

He’d initially planned to spend the whole day with his family, but after only three hours and being constantly asked about Harry by the little ones, he’d gone…...well. He hadn’t gone _home_ , but he’d gone back to the apartment early.

That was the worst he’d felt in a while.

He’s trying though. He’s _trying_.

He hasn’t bought alcohol in several days. Isn’t smoking as much. He’s remembering to eat—even if it _is_ at two in the morning—, and he hasn’t felt the need to wrap himself up in that damn Fleetwood Mac sweatshirt in almost a week now.

It’s been four months now. Four months, one week, and two days, and he’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he can do this.

-

It’s Friday night, and instead of going out with Bebe, like she’d practically _begged_ him to, Louis is sitting at home, watching a game show, with a glass of red wine in hand. He’s having a good time, actually, yelling at the contestants, even if they _are_ idiots and the one lady in the ugly shirt isn’t fucking _listening to him_.

The show goes to commercial, and, seeing as his glass is empty and he’s beginning to get sleepy, he heads to the kitchen to make himself some tea instead of refilling. 

Oh yeah, he bought himself a tea kettle too. Progress.

He hums softly to himself as he switches the kettle on, then checks the leftover chicken from his mum’s a couple nights ago, and, deeming it ready goes and grabs a couple of plates. He yawns as he grabs the forks from the drawer, and is suddenly glad it’s Friday. He’s got the whole weekend to sleep, and after all the meetings he’s had this week he deserves those two days of sleeping until noon.

He brings the plates and forks to the table, sets them, then straightens up and…..and…..

Realizes what he’s just done.

He stands there. Frozen. Just staring at the two plates.

He set _two plates_.

He was having a good day. Things have been going _well_.

And he set two plates.

Outside his building, a car door slams, and Louis jumps.

He jumps, his heart racing, and he looks back at the plates. He takes a breath, a deep, shuddered breath, and shakily goes to put the plate away.

It’s fine. It was just a plate. Just a minor setback. A momentary lapse.

He grabs the plate, grabs the fork, and heads back to the kitchen to put them away.

Once they’re safely put away, he rests his hands on the counter, and _breathes_. He’s staring at the countertop, staring at his hands, breathing.

God. He’s _so fucking stupid_.

On his next exhale, a disbelieving laugh comes with it. Then another, and another, and then he’s laughing, loudly and feeling like _such_ an idiot he can’t believe it. He’s an idiot who set out two plates after being broken up for _four months_ (and one week, and five days), and he’s laughing laughing _laughing_.

He brings a hand up to his face, covers his eyes, and realizes they’re wet. Oh.

His laughter stops as he stares at the wetness on his hand, almost shocked by it. He hasn’t cried in three months.

Louis sucks in a breath, and somehow, in between going into his lungs and coming out, it turns into a sob.

Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. The tears that have been building up for weeks and _weeks_ now are coming out, and he can’t seem to catch his breath, and he’s being loud he knows it, but there’s no one here to check up on him. There’s no one here to _care_ because the only person that’s ever really cared isn’t fucking _here_.

Louis’ knees fail him, and now he’s kneeling on the floor. One hand is covering his mouth, because the last thing he needs is someone to knock on his door, and the other is clutching at his stomach as he almost doubles over because he’s fucking _crying_ and _Harry isn’t here to hold him_.

Harry isn’t _here_ and that’s _not okay_ and no matter how much Louis tries to pretend it is—because he’s _trying_ , okay? He really _is_ —it _never_ will be, and at the end of every single goddamn day he’s left alone, wanting and waiting for the one thing he can’t have.

Maybe if they’d fucking _talked_ , things wouldn’t be this way.

Maybe if he’d _said something_ , that first time Harry got home late from work and it _bothered him_ , instead of just letting it go, things would be better.

Maybe if, instead of taking his frustrations from work home and turning them into frustrations with Harry, he’d talked it out, or took some time off, then he wouldn’t _be here_.

Maybe, if Harry hadn’t also been frustrated at the same time, and just as unwilling to talk, maybe they’d be together.

They didn’t, though. They didn’t talk, they didn’t take time off, they didn’t magically get better.

They just. They _didn’t_ , and now Louis is here, alone on the floor of his stupid kitchen that he hates, in a building he hates even more, crying so hard he feels like he _can’t fucking breathe_.

With his already broken heart cracking even more, and almost visibly shattering in front of him, he realizes he’s never getting over this. It can be four months, four years, or even forty years, and he's never going to get over his Harry.

Eventually, tears still finding their way down his cheeks, and completely soaking the sleeve of his shirt, he picks himself up off the floor. He starts slowly putting his food away, sniffling and wiping tears as he does, because any semblance of an appetite he’d had before is gone now.

Once he’s got that done, he flips off the kitchen light, shuts off the TV, and heads to the bedroom.

The first thing he does, is strip his gross, snot covered shirt off. Then, finally caving after a whole week, he grabs that stupid Fleetwood Mac sweatshirt, and pulls it on. He’s still sniffling as he pushes his sweatpants off and crawls into the stupid, too big bed, and as he shuts his eyes and prays for sleep, he wonders how in the _fuck_ he’s ever supposed to move on from this.

-

Louis bolts upright in bed, heart pounding as he looks around, trying to figure out what the fuck it was that just woke him up.

He glances at the clock next to his bed, sees it’s two AM, and is mid-groan when a loud _thud_ sounds, and he realizes there’s someone knocking on his fucking door.

With a sigh, he grabs his phone, before flicking the light on as he warily heads towards the front room. Who the fuck is knocking on his door at _two fucking AM_?

Because the building is just a little bit on the not-so-good side, there’s no peephole for him to look through before opening the door, so with a deep breath and a brief prayer that it’s not some psycho killer standing on the other end, he opens the door.

On the other side, looking tired and biting his lip nervously, is _Harry_.

And now, Louis’ heart is thumping loudly for a _completely_ different reason.

“Harry?”

He sounds off, sounds breathless even to his own ears, and Harry just stares at him a moment, before licking his lips, and letting out a quiet, “ _Lou_...hi.”

Louis swallows. “What are you doing here? How...how did you even…”

Harry’s fidgeting, just a little bit, the fingers of his right hand playing with the rings on his left, and with a jolt, Louis realizes he’s still wearing all of the fucking rings _that Louis gave him_.

“I um. I asked Niall? He gave me your address and I just…” He lets a shuddered breath, blinks, and his shoulders slump. “I wanted to see you.”

Louis’ heart flutters, the stupid thing, and he nods slowly, then steps back, not looking at Harry as he opens the door a little wider. “Come in? I don’t fancy waking the neighbors up at this hour.”

To his surprise, Harry whispers a soft “okay”, and follows Louis inside. Once the door is shut behind him, Louis flips the lights on, and stands awkwardly in front of him. Harry’s taking the room in, his gaze moving from the TV to the couch, to the kitchen, and then finally landing on Louis.

He’s quiet a moment, then finally, gestures at Louis. “I um. I thought I’d lost that sweatshirt.”

Louis’ eyebrows furrow and he looks down, confused, before realizing he’s still wearing _Harry’s_ fucking sweatshirt. Shit.

His cheeks heat, as he looks back up at Harry, and he shrugs. “Must’ve gotten mixed up in my things when I…” He stops, they stare at each other for a long, _painful_ second, and then Louis clears his throat. “Anyway. Why are you here?”

Harry looks down at his hands, and shrugs. “Told you. I wanted to see you.”

Louis huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why don’t I believe that?”

Harry looks up, hurt written all over his face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Can’t have wanted to see me that badly, considering it’s been four months of nothing.” He lets out a forced laugh. “Did you even fucking notice I was gone?”

Harry’s mouth drops open, and his shoulders slump. “What the _fuck_ , of course I noticed you were gone! How could I not?”

“Then why didn’t you—you didn’t call! You didn’t come looking, didn’t fucking…” Louis throws his hands up. “Nothing! You did _nothing_!”

“Because I thought you were coming back!” Louis just stares at him, eyes wide, and Harry sighs, bringing a hand up to rub at his face. When he continues, his voice is quieter, but rough, and scratchy sounding. “I thought you were just...just staying at Niall’s to cool off. I thought you’d be back in a couple of days and then we could finally sit down and—and _talk_.” He swallows, and looks down at the floor. “By the time I _realized_ , it was...you were already fucking gone and I figured seeing me was the last thing you wanted.”

They’re quiet, then, for the next few minutes. Harry keeps his eyes on his hands, and Louis keeps his eyes on Harry.

Eventually, Louis takes a breath, the hot feeling of tears in his eyes already beginning to swell before he even speaks.

“All I’ve wanted the last few months is you, Haz. Even before, all I wanted was for you to talk to me again.” He sniffs, before whispering, “just wanted you to look at me like you loved me again.” 

Harry’s gaze finally snaps up to him. He looks _pained_ , with tears already traveling down his cheeks. He shakes his head slightly, horrified. “Lou I’ve— _god_ I made you feel like I didn’t love you?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I never—” He swallows, then takes a cautious step forward.

“ _Lou_ I—” He breathes in sharply, and brings a hand up, extending it slightly towards Louis. “—can I?”

Louis nods immediately, and the next second, Harry’s right in front of him. Louis can feel the heat from his body, can _smell him_ , and then there’s a gentle caress to his cheek, before Harry’s hand is resting on it.

“Louis, _sweetheart_. How could you ever...how could I ever stop loving you?”

Louis sniffs, and stares at Harry’s collarbones. “I just—I was just never _sure_ , I—we barely kissed, never talked anymore and…” He sniffs again, and when the thumb on his cheek rubs softly, he can’t help but lean into it as he continues. “We should’ve talked. We should’ve—”

Harry shushes him, and brings his other hand up to cradle Louis’ other cheek. Louis wants to fall to his knees, in that moment, because _oh_ , he’s missed being touched this way.

“Louis, darling, please look at me?” Louis does, brings his eyes up to meet Harry’s, and _cries_.

He cries, because Harry’s _looking at him_. Looking the way he always has; with so much love and adoration, Louis could probably drown in it. And that’s _all he wanted_.

“Harry—”

Harry shakes his head. “No Lou please...please listen?” Louis nods, and Harry moves a hand up, so his finger tips are brushing Louis’ hair. His fingertips are trembling, just a little.

Harry sucks in a breath. “You’re right. You’re so right, love. We should’ve talked. I should’ve—things were getting to be a lot, yeah? For the both of us? You were stressed about work, I know you were, and I—I had a lot on my mind that I really shouldn’t have prioritized over _you_ , and making sure you felt loved. We both were quiet when we shouldn’t have been and got mad about things that were so _so_ stupid and—” He shakes his head. “Lou I can’t—I can’t lose you, I’m so _so_ sorry. _Please_ forgive me.”

Louis sniffles, and gives him a tiny smile, as he brings his own hands up, and grips Harry’s wrists. “Of _course_ Haz, if you forgive me too. I never should’ve—I took things out on you that I shouldn’t have, I said—god I said awful things, I’m so sorry baby.”

Harry nods, a little smile on his face now too. “Always, my sweet. I can’t live without you.”

Louis huffs out a laugh then, and takes a hand off of Harry long enough to wave it in the direction of his flat. “I can’t live without you either. I’m rubbish at it.”

They both laugh, teary eyed and a little breathless, and then Harry tilts Louis’ head up slightly, and kisses him.

Both of them are tired, and their faces are gross and wet from crying, but it’s the first _real_ kiss they’ve shared in months, and because of that, it’s perfect.

They start off short, just little pecks in between pulling away to breathe a little. But they quickly get longer, and harder, until eventually, Louis’ hands are sliding up and into Harry’s curls, at the same time that Harry’s hands move down, and wrap around his bare thighs. He uses his grip to hoist Louis up as he pushes him carefully up against the wall of Louis’ _stupid_ flat, that feels more like home right now than it has at any point in the last three months.

They kiss each other like they’re starving, like they’re going to die if they stop. Eventually, tongues become involved, and it feels so fucking _good_ that Louis is moving his hips in gentle rocking motions without even realizing what he’s doing.

Luckily, Harry only groans into his mouth, and tightens his grip on Louis’ thighs as he starts moving his own hips. Their pace is eager, so fucking desperate, until it gets to be _so much_ that Louis throws his head back against the wall, and starts whimpering Harry’s name for everyone to hear.

Harry keeps kissing him; kisses his neck, marks up his collarbones, all the while whispering endearments and telling Louis he’s _gorgeous_ , he’s _so so sweet_ , and, Louis’ favorite, the one that has him coming; _mine_.

Harry keeps moving as Louis comes, praising every single high pitched mewling and whimpering sound he lets out, until he comes too, his hips stuttering in their rhythm but his grip on Louis never faltering.

They stay there, just breathing for a bit. Harry melts into Louis, his head resting on Louis’ shoulder as Louis cradles it, and presses open mouthed kisses to every bit of skin he can reach.

At some point, the high turns into a hazy kind of sleepiness, and Harry readjusts his grip on Louis before carrying him to the bedroom. He strips out of his own clothes, before pulling Louis’ boxers off. He tugs a little at the string of the sweatshirt that Louis is still wearing, and Louis nods so Harry knows it’s okay to take it off as well.

He doesn’t need it anymore.

When Harry crawls into bed next to him, Louis wraps himself around him, and for the first time in nearly six months, he breathes.

The next morning, he’ll wake up at nine. He’ll panic just a little when he feels a body underneath him, before remembering everything from the night before. He’ll tear up a bit, then he’ll smile, because Harry’s big hands are pulling him closer, petting his hair, and whispering that he’s _here_ , and he’s not going anywhere.

They’ll talk too, over a wonderful breakfast, complete with tea and their feet intertwined under the table.

Louis’ll cancel his lease, move all his boxes back to _their_ place, and they’ll spend the next month redoing the entire flat, because this is them getting a fresh start, and they’re not about to let things go back to the way they were before.

Things will work out. They’ll get married, have kids, and eventually move out of their flat and into a _house_ , and it’ll be hard at times, sure, but they’ll get through it. They’re _HarryandLouis_ , and they can get through everything.

For now though, they hold each other tight, and everything is okay again.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable post](http://rainbowsandgucci.tumblr.com/post/177960386265/makes-me-think-about-you-so-i-wear-it-when-i)


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